Trafford Publishing: Man on the Scene

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Man on the Scene

by Jeff Quinn; co-published with Mutie Publishing

139 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1553; ISBN 1-4120-1176-0; US$16.50, C$19.00, EUR13.50, £9.50

Entertaining and full of adventure, this book presents a humorous look at travel from a poor vagabond's point of view.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

An authentic attempt at chronicling some of my travels from Alaska to Russia. A humorous look at life on the road and the characters I find alongside it. Discussions with babalowas, bums and shunned hermits are all in a day's work.

About the Author

Jeff Quinn is a high school teacher in Phoenix, Arizona. He is also a former social worker and a "short-time" editor of the Grand Canyon News. He enjoys backpacking, hunting, whitewater, baseball and travelling to all parts of the globe.

Sample Excerpts

Introduction
Arizona, 2003
Welcome to Man on the Scene. Beware. This is my first crack at book writing, so there may be some blatant and heinous mistakes. I hope not, but when you self-edit a book, mistakes are bound to occur, thus the lame disclaimer.
This book chronicles a few of my adventures over the years. There are many more, but I'm afraid some of them are simply unprintable. Perhaps those tales are better told around a roaring campfire with fewer witnesses. The stories in this collection are fairly concise and to the point. Many of the characters (especially my own friends) are undeveloped. I'm afraid I tend to think rather fragmentally. Therefore, some of my sentences tend to be choppy fragments at times. They make sense to me and I can only hope they make sense to you.
I tried not to offend anyone, but if I did, I apologize. Sometimes my realistic nature cuts like a razor.
Travel has become an addiction for me. I constantly feel the need to plan and execute a new adventure. I try to always have a new one in the planning stages at all times. It gives me something to look forward to. And I'm the kind of person that always needs something to look forward to. Now if I could only do something about this aging thing.
"How the hell do you afford to go on these trips?", is probably the most frequently asked question that I field from people.
First of all, I travel on the cheap whenever possible. I find cheap airfares, stay at cheap hotels, and tend to travel to cheap or affordable locales, preferably third world or developing locales. I guess the bottom line is...I'm just a cheap bastard.
There always seems to be more going on in third world countries. Life in its rawest form. We take so much for granted in the United States. Travel really allows me to appreciate my own life. Traffic seems lighter, polluted air looks clearer and even food seems to taste better when I return home after a trip. Secondly, I don't blow lots of cash every weekend at the bar and I tend to avoid the mall (like the plague) whenever possible. Two places that can definitely drain my already low budget in a hurry.
The next question people inevitably ask me is "why do you travel?". In response, I'd have to say that I just feel the need to see the world through my own eyes and experiences. I need to smell the smells and taste the tastes of a culture, may they happen to be pleasant or unpleasant. I need to feel the humidity of the rainforest in Malaysia and the high altitude lung-tug of the Andes. I like to self-educate. To learn new things. To meet new and different faces in crazy, distant places. I like to meet them, then suck their minds dry. I love to ask questions and I try to understand all that I can. Travel has allowed me to grow wiser and much more intelligent. Besides, it's fun as hell...Most of the time. Travel is also full of downtime and tough decisions. Most trips are a work in progress. You plan and adjust. And then you plan and adjust some more.
Finally, I'd like to thank my family and friends for all their fine support over the years. I couldn't have done it without them, especially my parents Edward and Reta Quinn.
Chapter 2: Rocky Times in Puerto Penasco
Mexico, 1991
A while back, I took a trip down south of the border to a place in Mexico called Puerto Penasco, or Rocky Point as any gringo that's ever been will surely tell you. It's only about five hours from my home in Phoenix situated on the extreme northeastern coast of the Gulf of California. Although in Mexico, the place is very much overrun by Arizonans on holiday. A place to get drunk and stupid. And after all, a friend once told me while driving around in Rocky Point, more specifically Cholla Bay, that "they love us down here".
It was Thanksgiving weekend and after a round of bird or two, I met up with my old buddy Gary Anderson, a fellow teacher and all around good guy. We stuffed a couple of three-wheelers in the back of his old 1977 Chevy Long bed, twowheel drive pickup and headed to the first convenient store we came across for provisions. Provisions being pretty damned light. Ice, beer, and maybe a bag of pretzels. Like my idol Hayduke from Edward Abbey's The Monkey Wrench Gang, we measured distance by lobbing dead soldiers into the bed of the pickup. I know...Stupid yes...but we were young, and at least we didn't throw them on the side of the highway like Hayduke did!
There we were, making haste to the fabled seaside oasis in the midst of the desert, bird in our bellies, a cool breeze through the open cab windows, and sunrays reflecting off the silver cans in our hands. About an hour over the border and an hour from our destination, we pulled off the road to distance ourselves from the liquids we had ingested and promptly became stuck in the sand. You see, Gary's truck ran like a champ, but it had a few things going against it...Namely bald tires and its lack of four-wheel drive capabilities. Luckily, we had the foresight to bring along a thick chain. We had actually brought it along to lock up the bikes, but it quickly served a dual purpose. The chain became our savior, getting us out of a tough spot on at least a half-dozen occasions. Thanks again to all you good people out there that pulled us out, wherever you may be.
An hour later, we arrived at a hotel several miles from the ocean at the head of a dirt road which leads to Cholla Bay and famed J.J.'s Cantina. We rented a room for the night and chained up our bikes to a post in front of the hotel. Quite a romantic image don't you think? Like the Old West itself.
We headed down the dirt track to Cholla Bay, an American haven, where the Mexicans lease land to gringos and gringos in turn build everything from flophouses to magnificent haciendas. A golf course has recently been added at Sandy Beach, officially embossing the United States seal on the locale. Had we headed the other direction from our hotel, we would have wound up in the town of Puerto Penasco, which is not touristy and altogether Mexican in nature. My friend Jason Moore can probably tell you all about the fine history of the famed J.J.'s Cantina. Who the original owner was and currently is and so forth, but I'm afraid I can't, nor will I ever be able to. Basically, because I don't give a shit. The bar, a spring break favorite, is decked out with license plates and paraphernalia on the walls from all over the country...America that is. Satellite dishes beam down sports and sitcoms alike from Mexico's busy industrial neighbor to the north. There are plenty of cold Mexican beers and a small parquet dance floor.
The joint was jumpin' as we entered and we decided to just go with the flow. Drink and dance and do our best to impress all the fine young Mexican...Err, I mean American...Girls. About that time of evening (not anymore mind you, for Gary's a reformed, upstanding citizen these days), Gary would transform himself into a comical alter ego named Bill. I don't know why he chose the name Bill? I think his alias was intended to conceal his true identity from ugly women. The ugly designation of course changing progressively throughout the evening. His profession varied, depending on his mood, from stockbroker, to real estate agent, to architect or simply a down-home potbelly pig farmer from Taos, New Mexico. I know what you're thinking. What a low-down, dirty thing to do. But admit it, most of those singles bars are one big pile of plasticity to begin with anyway.
He even had a particular maneuver where he got down on one knee in the middle of the bar and asked women to marry him. He claims his success rate while employing the "marriage maneuver" was 5 out of 10. One particular evening at a now-defunct nightspot in North Phoenix, he employed his goofy tactic during a power outage, substituting a purse for the Holy Scripture and a lighter as the Sacred Candle. He took that one home. Silly I know!
This time however, things went wrong from the get go. He targeted a striking blonde with all her teeth and a little too much to drink across the bar. She favored his attention all right, but her behemoth of a boyfriend didn't take it to well. Especially the marriage ceremony bit.
Sipping my umpteenth Negra Modelo, I watched the whole ugly scene unfold across the small, crowded bar. The Giant and nine of his closest compadres (as it turned out a group of firefighters from Phoenix) encircled "Bill" and planned his untimely funeral in the exact spot that he was busy conducting his mock wedding proposal.
Having to do something, I hurried to the center of the circle, which was now tightly surrounding Gary and pled with the Giant for some sort of peaceful resolution. After some very intense moments and a whole lot of abusive language from the crowd, I somehow managed to get Gary out of there with the stolid promise that we would meet the Giant "at the hill" the next afternoon. Of course, I had no idea where or even what the hell "the hill" was, this being my first trip to Cholla Bay. But it sure sounded good at the time. A whole hell of a lot better than the alternative...Facing off against ten drunken guys and bleeding all the way to some seedy Mexican jail.
So, we managed to make a run for it before the Giant and his entourage changed their minds.
After unsticking Gary's stuck truck in the parking lot, we vamoosed to the hacienda for some much-needed rest. Good thing the Giant wasn't chasing us...We wouldn't have gotten very far.
The next morning we awoke to find our threewheelers in the same spot we left them...Always a plus. We dined on huevos rancheros at the hotel restaurant and enjoyed spectacular ocean views from the second-story balcony. The ocean looked real nice, but the restaurateur's daughter looked even nicer. It was tough to decide which one to focus on.
After a fulfilling meal, we hopped on the bikes and headed down the rutted, jolting road toward Cholla Bay. We had pretty much forgotten about the averted big rumble, but kept an eye out for the Giant just in case. We were after all in our mid-twenties and not in our midteens.
On the way to Cholla Bay, we passed by the now infamous "hill" off to our left. More like a small desert mountain with its northern slope eroded down to sand. The sandy side of course appealing to the off-road enthusiasts which were busy racing around at top speeds, some tumbling, all of them eating dust and drinking lots of beverages despite the fact it was ten in the morning.
We toured the beach for awhile then grabbed a liquid lunch at the Pataya Bar. Afterwards, we amused ourselves by watching gringo tents pinwheel down the beach in the strong winds. A few unfortunate souls buried their small cars axle-deep in the sand while driving down the beach. I couldn't imagine where they thought they were headed?
On our way back to the hotel, we visited the hill and raced around for awhile. No Giant in sight.
After a refreshing cold shower and a bite to eat, we were ready to see the Mexican side of Mexico. This entailed a trip into the town of Puerto Penasco itself, where gringos only ventured during daylight hours. We had also heard of a fabulous house of ill repute rumored to be located in the vicinity. Now, I don't want you to think that we were down on our luck and destitute (we might have been, I don't really recall). We were far more concerned with the experience of finding the fabled whorehouse than actually taking part in any malfeasance.
In Puerto Penasco, we found a small cantina off one of the main streets and clambered in for a beer and some intel on the aforementioned sinful sight. We were the only gringos in the place and every eye was upon us as we took a seat at the bar. The mood lightened when I attempted to speak some Spanish. An intoxicated character lacking teeth, insisted we buy some shrimp. However, the way he pronounced shrimp in English sounded more like schwinn, and I couldn't stop thinking the guy wanted to sell us a bicycle. He was so persistent that the bartender had to threaten him with a baseball bat in order to leave us in peace. It was actually pretty damn comical.
We finished up our beers and procured a small clue as to the whereabouts of the whorehouse from one of the fine patrons at the bar. Then we headed out. Unfortunately the schwinn salesman followed us out to the truck, convinced we needed some seafood. He went as far as to grab a hold of Gary's door handle and block him from getting in his truck. I picked up a rock (a gesture known to traverse cultural barriers worldwide) and gently persuaded him; letting him know that we really didn't need any shrimp. Then we got the hell out of there.
Following vague directions, we arrived at some sort of disco bar on the outskirts of Puerto Penasco. It definitely didn't resemble a whorehouse, but then again I really didn't know what did, having never actually seen one before. We were thirsty anyway, so we went in and ordered a beer and soaked in the scene. No gringos as we expected, just a lot of drinking and dancing. A couple of amigos sauntered by and we struck up a conversation, inquiring about the target one more time. "Ssii...Ahh...Ssii..." They exclaimed. I wasn't really convinced that they knew what the hell we were talking about, but we decided to give it a try anyway. I figured at the very least they could get us Mexican rates on beer, as Americans tend to pay inflated prices in comparison. The four of us piled into Gary's truck and bounced east down a dirt track in the desert, driving ever further away from Puerto Penasco and miles away from the hotel and Cholla Bay. After about ten minutes, we arrived at what looked like a huge warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Being young and stupid, we quickly set aside our apprehensiveness and went inside. The place was cavernous and virtually empty, and it more resembled a supermarket that recently went belly-up than a bar. There were several tables and a long wooden bar occupied by a few drunks.
We grabbed a table and ordered a round of tequila from the waitress. A short while later, two obese senoritas in their early fifties appeared from the back and sashayed over to our table. They proceeded to make themselves at home by sitting down next to Gary and I. Our tourguiding Mexican compadres gave us a wink of satisfaction. Gary and I just looked at each other and began laughing. The senoritas however, weren't impressed, and their faces had an air of complete seriousness.
I guess this was Puerto Penasco's version of the Mustang Ranch. After several drinks and much haggling, we managed to somehow escape the senorita's wrath and get the hell out of there before we were forced to commit some sort of heinous act.
The amigos assured us they knew of "otro" (other for you gringos) places for us to see and we headed farther out into the desert. At that point, we just wanted to drop these guys off and make a hasty retreat back to the hotel. After convincing our new found friends of that fact, we started heading back toward the distant lights of Puerto Penasco. And I do mean distant lights. After a mile or so, we all decided a pit stop was in order to relieve ourselves. There we were, in lovely Old Mexico, moon beaming down on us and a cool, gentle breeze blowing in off the ocean...Drunk and happy.
But suddenly one of the Mexicans jumped into the driver's seat of Gary's running truck and prepared to make off with it, leaving us stranded in the desert. His buddy wasn't impressed, as he watched with wide eyes on the other side of me, waiting to see the outcome. Like a strange scene unfolding out of a Starsky and Hutch episode, the thief let out the clutch and slowly began to drive away. Instinctively, Gary ran alongside and leaped into the bed. From there, he quickly made his way up to the driver's side window, where he reached inside and grabbed the guy around the neck, simultaneously pinning his head to the rear window of the cab. The truck came to a herky-jerky stop and Gary, in complete disbelief, angrily flung the outcast hombre out of the truck and into a heap in the dirt. His friend, looking almost pale under the moon's rays, gave me a nervous look as if to say: I had no idea he was going to do that. Gary gave the thief a tongue-lashing and we jumped in the cab and peeled out, leaving them behind. Somehow, we managed to make our way back to the hotel. (Editor's disclaimer: I don't personally condone any of these actions. But at the time, it sure was a hell of a lot of fun.)

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